The Final One
by WittyFae
Summary: short one shot fiction. A man must come to terms with the end of his short lived career. While you would find it horrifying he would call it special. Some graphic descriptions of violence.


**The Final One**

Her blood was thick and black. It stuck to his fingers and he enjoyed its warmth. It was all the hotter from her struggle, but she had long since stopped twitching. Bare-chested he surveyed his work. The intricate incision was nothing short of art – so precise and straight. If his aim had been to operate on some ailment within her he could have been assured a success. He had always had a special knack; it was a pity he had never become a doctor. But then doctors were well to do men and he only played the role.

The rickety bed sagged under the weight of the corpse, now pale – all its blood having been drained slowly from the gaping chasm in her torso. He never liked to leave right away, but every time it grew more and more dangerous to stay. He knew now that even if a girl was a whore, her death would still raise alarm. Especially the way he delivered it. But the beauty of her body laying there, open and exposed more completely than most bodies ever were, caused him to linger just a bit longer.

To prolong his stay he puttered around the room. He cleaned the simple pocket knife he had used to split her flesh and dropped it casually into his back trouser pocket. He paused a moment and thought better of it. He removed knife and set it down gently on a splintered nightstand beside the bed. He removed the rest of his clothing, his pants, his undergarments, socks, and put them with the crisp white high collared shirt and a velvet cape that he had draped over the back of a splintered gray chair.

Naked now he caught site of himself in a dirty fogged mirror. It was cracked, no doubt the result of some tussle before him, some thrown liquor bottle, but it still served its purpose.

He was lean, some might say skinny, but his muscles stood defined against his pale skin. The light of a nearby street lamp cast its glow into the dingy room. It threw shadows on his naked form. He stood straight; he seemed genteel, confident, with only a faint scruffiness about his face to hint at any sort of roughness. This was someone he could be proud of, a man of respect.

He turned and looked at his art on the bed with some sadness. Even before the events took place he knew, deep inside, that this would be the last time. It was too risky now, word had gotten out. The police were smarter and more motivated in this case than he had thought. Usually no one cared about the goings on of the slums, why would the death of a few whores cause so much attention?

The answer to that question was simply he was far too good at it. He had been clumsy at first, new and uncertain, but with the second, third, and fourth, he had made such significant progress and his work had become all the more shocking. He was famous now. Papers boasted stories about him; they'd even given him a name. People had even written to authorities claming to be him, to share in his greatness. He was somebody.

But now it was over. Perhaps it was because he had known that the end was near that he had taken such grain pains to create such a sight to greet the public in the morning. He had not chosen at random this time. She had been old, but a cry better than the others. She had received the great honor to be his final Opus. There was no way she could have known that of course. She couldn't understand why he had changed so quickly. He did admit the change was rather severe this time. They had even made love beforehand – something he had never done before with any of the others. But then, she was special. And now the whole world would know how beautiful she was. She was not his model, but his canvas.

It was growing late. He reluctantly tore his gaze away from her and set about putting on his other clothes. When he had finished he gathered his belongings and gave a final glance around the room, to check if he had left anything behind. Satisfied he had everything he backed quietly out of the door, like one would leave a nursery to avoid awakening a sleeping baby. Out on the dim street once more in the cool night air he closed the door behind him and headed up the street.

The fog was thick, but then it always was in this section, you grew used to it. He stopped on the way where a circle of men without homes to go to had built a fire. For the last time he pulled out his charming persona and asked the fellows if they wouldn't mind a bit more fuel to their fire. He dropped the bundle of fine clothing into the flames. His heart ached as he saw the fire lick at the silks and tweeds. It was truly over. He still clutched the felt, top hat in his hands. He couldn't bear to watch it destroyed as well, but he couldn't dare keep it.

"Fine hat." said a particularly young chap.

"Yes," he said after a moment. He closed his eyes. He must keep his wits together, how would it look if he broke down crying in the company of these strangers? No doubt it would raise suspicion. He had taken care to raise his collar high and cover the bottom of his face with a scarf but he couldn't be too careful.

Sadly, he extended his hand to the young man and offered him the hat.

The young man eyed him suspiciously and did not take the gift right away.

"It would be a shame to waste it." He said, trying to sound cheerful. "Go on take it. You might be able to get a price for it." He added with enthusiasm.

Finally, with a mumbled 'thank you' the young man accepted the hat and tucked it into his lap. With that done he made his departure with a polite goodbye to the gathering and continued down the street before he could break down.

He walked and walked through the fog and the smell brought down by the breeze from the factories. He felt the clothes he was wearing start to cling to his body, to change him. His posture slowly dropped until he slouched, his face lost the calm, confident expression and became anxious and meek. His eyes dropped to the street in deference to anything that might happen by. He had lost his wide, fluid gait and arrived at entrance of the boarding house that served as home with quick close steps.

As he climbed the steps to apartment number 12 he took a few deep breaths. It's over. He told himself sharply as he paused by the door. You're just a normal man again, no better than all the rest. Just remember the time you had. _Yes_, he thought, a small smile playing on his now frail lips, _I'll always have that_. He smiled, and silently thanked the five who had made it all possible. Then he opened the door and kissed his wife and sat down to play a game of jacks with his son before supper.


End file.
